


A Play That He Wrote From The Heart

by TheCrownprincessBride



Series: Christmas gifts 2020 [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Find the TAD references, Gen, Geralt is grumpy, Inspired by a The Amazing Devil Song, Jaskier writes a musical, Yennefer is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28264638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrownprincessBride/pseuds/TheCrownprincessBride
Summary: Jaskier is commissioned to write a play, and, for once, Geralt is not amused that Jaskier uses a real life story as example. Because Witchers don't sing.Yet, it seems only Yennefer will be able to stop the bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Christmas gifts 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065869
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	A Play That He Wrote From The Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_furious_welly_boots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_furious_welly_boots/gifts).



> This is for you, blue_furious_welly_boots (love the name, btw!). Thank you for letting me be part of your musical and keeping me updated with all the stuff that happens on Twitter^^. I had a lot of fun working with you, and I can't wait to continue our various projects. <3
> 
> This is my very bad attempt at writing something funny. I still hope you'll enjoy.

Geralt drags himself up the last few steps to the inn room. He isn’t hurt, only tired, and he smells absolutely disgusting. Fucking rotfiends, exploding their guts all over him. Really fucking rude. Can’t they just die a little more civilly? –

Like wraiths, for example. Sure, there is a bit of screaming, but no guts all over the place.

He sighs. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been a wraith hunt, hence the smell. As hunts go, it wasn’t a bad one – good coin and no major injuries. He’s still looking forward to a bath and a good night’s sleep.

Approaching the room, he can see the orange glow of candle light shine from underneath the door and hear the furious scribbling of a quill on parchment. Jaskier is still awake, it seems. Awake and composing.

Quietly, Geralt opens the door, relaxing as the familiar smell of the bard envelops him, ink, and lute oil, and lavender. Jaskier doesn’t look up when he enters, doesn’t acknowledge him at all, in fact.

“Hm,” Geralt greets him, unused to the silent treatment. Normally, Jaskier would already badger him with questions.

“Sh, I’m working,” the bard replies almost sharply, still not looking up, not even checking to see if he’s injured.

The Witcher blinks at him, disappointment spreading through his chest. Even though he always brushes him off, he secretly likes Jaskier’s fussing. No fussing tonight, it seems. At least, there’s a tub with water in the corner, and the Witcher quickly undresses and heats himself a bath.

The bard doesn’t react at all to him, not even when he fumbles around with the soaps and pulls the stopper out of the hair oil extra loudly to get a reaction, a laugh, a touch,  _ something _ .

But not tonight, it seems. Must be a really special song he’s writing, Geralt muses.

“What are you doing?” he asks finally, just to hear Jaskier talk to him. He doesn’t like being ignored like that, too used to Jaskier’s attention.

“Writing a play,” comes the curt reply.

Geralt lifts one eyebrow, but Jaskier is chewing on the end of the quill, reading over part of his draft before scratching something out.

“ _ Some fictions we took to mean fate _ ,” he mumbles. “Yes, that’s better.”

“Hm?” Geralt asks, wrapping himself in a towel and walking over. Fate? What the hell is the bard writing about? “A  _ play _ ?”

“Yes,” Jaskier replies, stretching the vowel, clearly irritated by the question.

“Why?”

The bard sighs deeply, annoyed, and looks up. There’s a splotch of ink on his chin, and his cornflower eyes glow the way they only do when he’s consumed by an idea.

“A group of actors from Novigrad asked me to write a play for them. I worked with them every now and then, so I decided to humour them.”

Geralt frowns. Novigrad. Apparently, Jaskier knows people everywhere. “Hm,” he hums, but when he sees Jaskier is moving to turn away again, he adds, “What about?”

A mischievous grin dances over Jaskier’s lips. “You’ll find out when it’s done.”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest – normally Jaskier can’t stop talking about his ideas – but his friend is already staring at the parchment again, completely lost to the world. He watches him a moment longer, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment, a nod or a smile, but nothing is forthcoming.

He huffs, narrowing his eyes at Jaskier.

“Stop pouting,” the bard says without looking at him.

Geralt snorts. He’s not pouting. Witchers don’t pout. Like ever. They are fierce warriors, dangerous and brave, and... and... –

_ Fine _ , he’s pouting. But the bard is being unreasonable. He’s completely justified in his reaction.

Geralt huffs again, and for lack of better options, he goes to bed.

*

“It’s done,” Jaskier exclaims a week later.

Geralt looks up at him from his place at the window where he was mending his shirt. The bard stretches and his shoulder joints make a popping sound that has him wincing.

“Hm,” the Witcher acknowledges the new information, breathing in deeply the smell of contentment coming from the bard.

“Now you can ask me,” Jaskier beams, but Geralt only raises one eyebrow, staying silent. If Jaskier wants to talk about the play, he will do it without prompting.

The bard pouts for a whole second, but then he gives in, “Fine, I’ll read it out to you.” He clears his throat, but before he can begin, Geralt has leapt to his feet and snatched the pieces of parchment out of his hands.

“ _ Rude _ ,” Jaskier complains, but he pays him no mind, beginning to read Act I.

It takes him exactly two pages to realise what it is about. His eyes widen, and he quickly skims the next pages. “ _ With you I could summon the gods and the stars _ ,” he reads out loud, looking up at the bard in indignation.

“A great line, isn’t it?” Jaskier grins, Geralt’s glare sliding off him like a snowball on  _ Quen _ .

“What the fuck is this, Jaskier?”

“A play. Do you ever listen to me, dear Witcher?” He sighs dramatically. “ _ Really _ Geralt.”

“But... but there’s  _ singing _ ,” he protests, waving the pages through the air as if that could make Jaskier understand. 

“Of course, there is,” Jaskier chuckles. “Silly Witcher.”

“But...” He looks at the duet in the second act, performed by the two star-crossed lovers. These  _ characters _ bear an uncanny resemblance with himself and Yennefer, all the while singing epic love ballads and exclaiming such dramatic things as  _ ‘And the wine stains hide the tears’ _ .

Witchers don’t cry as a rule. There are no tears to hide. 

Even when the love of their life leaves them – again.

And... and...  _ and _ he wasn’t raised by wolves and voices, godsdamnit. And Yen surely isn’t time itself.

“You can’t write that. Yen and I are not...  _ this _ .” He drops the papers as if they turned into slimy slugs.

Jaskier makes a disapproving sound and stands up to gather the pages that have spread over the floor. “As you can see, I can,” he states. “People love tragic romances. And it’s not  _ you _ I’m writing about, it’s –”

“You named him  _ Gwyn _ . I speak enough elder to understand that,” Geralt deadpans.

Jaskier blushes a little. “Fine. It’s inspired by you. Satisfied?”

Geralt raises one eyebrow at him.

“Oh, come on. You always say I should tell the people real life stories.”

“ _ Real _ ?” he echoes incredulously. “When exactly was I wielding swords against make-believe wizards or –”

“Artistic freedom,” Jaskier counters easily.

“But...” Geralt shakes his head, feeling almost dazed. He can’t be portrayed like this, fighting monsters that don’t exist or singing about his  _ feelings _ – his reputation will shatter quicker than a pane of glass.

Who will hire a Witcher who sings  _ ‘does my hair look as nice /As it did when you once tied it up in your eyes?’  _ –

Nobody!

He has to stop this. But how?

Suddenly, an idea occurs to him. “Yen will gut you for this,” he says with the surety of having won this argument. The sorceress is scary, and not even he would dare to cross her.

It gives him immense satisfaction to see the bard pale, and he feels almost smug as he gathers his mending. “You will have to write a different play,” he adds.

“Nah,” he shrugs, recovering his smile. “She’ll be fine.”

“She’ll murder you in your sleep,” Geralt replies. “And I won’t play bodyguard again.”

Jaskier just grins and shrugs, as if he doesn’t even care. Normally his threats are working better than that. Damn.

For a moment, he contemplates throwing all the pages into the fire, but Jaskier hasn’t deserved that. So he sighs, giving in.

“It’s your funeral.”

*

_ A few weeks later somewhere in Redania _

“My eyes are made of winter, you say?” a voice behind Jaskier says, and he drops the mugs of ale he was carrying, spinning around in the same move. The clay splinters on the floor and ale splashes all over his trousers, but he doesn’t even notice.

Before him stands Yennefer, beautiful and oh so scary, wearing a black dress with white embroidery.

“Uh,” he stutters, frantically searching the room for Geralt who sits in a corner, looking incredibly smug, like a cat that got the canary  _ and  _ the cream. “So, you... um...”

“Yes, I saw the play,” she replies, her face expressionless, and a pit opens in Jaskier’s stomach. She hates it. Gods, what if she really hates it?

“So, uh, what do you – what do you think?” he forces out. It must be a good sign that she hasn’t turned him into a slug yet, mustn’t it?

“I’m unreasonably in love with it,” the sorceress replies drily.

It takes a moment for her words to register. Is she... wait a moment, is she  _ quoting _ his own play back at him?

There’s the smallest of smiles on Yen’s lips, and that tips the scales. She  _ likes  _ it. She actually likes it.

“Yo- you do?” he asks, voice faint with relief.

She nods once. “But if you  _ ever _ write a play about me again, I will turn you into a real buttercup, buttercup. I haven’t tried that for ages.” She examines her nails ostentatiously. “I could use the practise.”

Automatically, he makes a step back, right into a puddle of ale, but he doesn’t care. Yen isn’t mad! With the widest grin on his face, he glances over to Geralt, who looks a little like he bit into a lemon, a glower on his face that could turn milk sour. He obviously heard every word.

Jaskier waves at him happily, and his glare intensifies. “You lover doesn’t look happy about your decision to  _ not _ turn me into a buttercup right now,” he murmurs to Yen.

She looks at Geralt, who appears about ready to draw his sword and murder everyone in this pub, and then back at Jaskier, and replies, completely serious, “Give him two damn minutes, and he’ll be fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to all of you <3


End file.
